Under the Weather
by RavenclawHobbit
Summary: In which the author tortures the Baker Street boys with a number of miscellaneous ailments and illnesses for her own twisted enjoyment. Intimate hurt/comfort moments and feels abound. No pairings unless your slash-goggles imply them, just straight-up sick!fic. Most of these will be one-shots. Also taking requests/suggestions for future chapters!
1. Chapter 1

**This chapter is somewhat based on the epilogue of my sick!fic, ****Inconvenienced****. The only thing is, that story ends with Sherlock's leg in a cast, which I ignored in this little one-shot. You do not have to have read ****Inconvenienced**** to understand this.**

Everything is surreal. John feels a strong hand on his shoulder. He sees a staircase that is familiar, so familiar, so…heavy. The stairs are heavy? No, his feet are heavy. It is a struggle to lift each foot and put it on the next step. Like dragging a bag of rocks. Rocks? Like he's climbing a mountain of rocks. Why is he thinking about mountains? These are stairs. Sherlock murmurs to him, half-worried, half-encouraging. He keeps dragging the bags of rocks, for Sherlock. They reach the top. It's a relief.

Sherlock doesn't show it, but he's utterly bewildered. He tries to remember what John did for him when he was sick. He doesn't think he was quite _this_ sick. "Mrs. Hudson!"

A trembling hand and an awkward voice steer John into the flat. He follows blindly, unsure of quite what's going on. Mrs. Hudson's voice is heard, and her presence relaxes Sherlock somewhat.

John's stomach lurches and his hand flies to his mouth. Someone hands him a bucket before he is violently sick. His vision his blurry. A strong hand guides him to sit down on the bathroom mat with his back against the wall. There's a hand framing his forehead, two hands on his shoulders. Anxious voices. A thermometer is slid under his tongue and held there.

John can't help but shiver. The cloth that dabs his sweaty face feels like ice. The thermometer is removed and the anxious voices redouble. Mrs. Hudson is whispering something about a hospital, and Sherlock is shaking his head vehemently.

The two of them swim in and out of focus. John is watching as if through a window, as if they and their conversation are completely separated from him. The cloth returns, and another hand pushes a pill through his lips and holds a glass of water to them. A voice murmurs encouragement until he swallows.

John may not be lucid, but he is scared. Scared because everything hurts and he can't stop shivering, and at the present moment, he feels the discomfort churning in his abdomen again. He clutches the bucket, but only a mouthful of vomit comes up before all that's left is bitter bile. He can't stop heaving even long enough to gasp for breath. Just as he is starting to panic, he is drawn up short by the sensation of a hand on his back. It begins with stiff, awkward pats that progress into soothing circles as Sherlock gains confidence.

When the retching subsides, John catches his breath and is calmer. He is grateful for the sip of water he is offered, as it washes away some of the foul taste. Now a hand wraps around his back and another in the crooks of his knees, slowly lifting him off the floor. Sherlock carries him up the stairs and deposits him ever-so-gently into his own bed. Sherlock tucks the covers around him while Mrs. Hudson prepares another cold compress and lays it on his forehead, petting his hair gently as she does so.

*/*/*

"Try to sleep now, John. It'll be better when you wake up." Mrs. Hudson clucked. To be entirely honest, John didn't hear. She turned back to Sherlock, standing a few meters away.

"Now…what should we do now?" Sherlock mumbled. He was red in the face, still not sure how to handle the situation.

"Let him rest," Mrs. Hudson suggested. "And monitor his temperature every few hours. If it gets that high again, I _will_ take him to hospital."

"What's wrong with him?"

"The same virus you had, I'd expect, dear. Come on downstairs with me now, the last thing our poor doctor needs is you hovering."

As she left, Sherlock followed like a sullen child.


	2. Chapter 2

**When I started this, it was for Anagogia's sick!fic prompt, but she requested a more serious malady and an oblivious and/or mean, uncaring John, and this just escaped down a completely different road.** **I will try again, I promise! For now, I guess just enjoy this tidbit.**

John Watson lay back against his pillows with both hands behind his head, watching the ceiling and pondering his dilemma: To go downstairs, or to let it alone?

The winter had been a harsh one, and starting in November Sherlock suffered from what he called a "touch of nasal congestion", which progressed into a "certain amount of pressure in my sinuses, now drop it, John." A cough followed, somewhat shallow and dry at first, but it quickly appeared to settle in his chest, rattling when he breathed. John had been uneasy and ventured to ask,

"Still fighting that cold, are you?"

"Marginally." Sherlock punctuated this remark with a hacking cough that was not altogether reassuring. John was aware it could have been his imagination, but he fancied Sherlock looked a bit flushed.

"Do you think you might have a fever?"

"Hmm. No."

"Because I don't like the sound of that cough at all. It sounds—"

"Am I to understand that you no longer believe I am afflicted by a common cold, then?" asked Sherlock uninterestedly.

"It sounds," John continued, emboldened by Sherlock's indifference. "Like there is fluid in your lungs. And that's something to be concerned about."

"Please, tell me more." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John bristled. "I'm not saying it to badger you, Sherlock. I think you might want to get checked out, that's all."

The next day, Sherlock ignored John's continued hints that he should see a doctor and acted somewhat more tired than usual. The day after that, he didn't get out of bed.

John was not troubled by leaving for work before the detective got up – that man had no circadian rhythm whatsoever, and in the absence of a case he was fond of sleeping in. No, the worry began when he got home and the bedroom door was still shut. Sherlock didn't emerge for supper, and in fact, John's only confirmation that his flatmate was alive was the throaty coughs that echoed down the hallway from time to time.

Now it was midnight, and John was listening to a sound vaguely reminiscent of a barking seal coming from the bedroom downstairs. The medical man in him wanted very much to investigate, as it sounded serious, but he knew all too well what his flatmate's reaction would be.

After a coughing spell so violent it sounded hard for Sherlock to get a breath in edgewise, John decided enough was enough. He retrieved his medical kit, set it down in the hallway so as to have it nearby if needed, and tapped on Sherlock's door, calling, "Sherlock, can I come in?"

A muffled grumble replied. Hopefully it was meant as a 'yes', because John entered anyway.

Sherlock was a pitiful sight. He lay wretchedly on his back, staring at the ceiling with eyes glazed by fever. Crumpled tissues decorated the blankets and floor, and an open bottle of cough syrup and a sticky spoon were tossed carelessly on the bedside table.

Sherlock groaned when he saw John and pulled the blankets tighter around him. "What are you doing here? It's—" he glanced at the clock "—Quarter after twelve!"

"I could hear you coughing. You sound awful."

"Really? Because I feel just peachy."

"No, listen. I'm worried. This isn't an ordinary cold anymore. I—"He took a deep breath. "I need you to do something about it. So is it…more or less awkward if I offer to look you over? Because the alternative is you make yourself an appointment at the clinic." Given Sherlock's opinion of doctors and doctor's offices, John wasn't sure how he would react to either proposal.

"And if I don't call the clinic, you will?" Sherlock guessed.

"That's the idea, yeah."

Sherlock weighed his options thoughtfully. "Do what you want, I can't be arsed."

"That's the spirit," said John grimly, retrieving his kit from the hall. Lethargy was a bad sign where Sherlock and doctors were concerned.

Sherlock had rolled over to face the wall, arms folded. John set his things on the bedside table, reaching first for the thermometer.

"Come on, Sherlock," The detective was not going to make things easy, was he? John gently grabbed his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. "We need to take your temp," John explained, trying to hand him the thermometer. Sherlock made no move to take it. John sighed. "At least open your mouth, then."

Sherlock obliged. John slipped the thermometer under his tongue and waited patiently. For three long minutes, the silence was broken only by mechanical beeps.

John removed and read the thermometer when it chimed. A low-grade fever, as he'd suspected.

"Do you think you could sit up for me?" John put a hand on his shoulder to help him, but Sherlock swatted it off and pushed himself into an upright position. The sudden movement inspired a fresh fit of barking coughs. When he had collected himself, Sherlock lunged for the snuffbox and spit something into a tissue. John was busy warming the end of his stethoscope in his palm.

The metal still felt unpleasantly cool to Sherlock's feverish skin. He was uncharacteristically cooperative about breathing in and out as John asked, though they had to stop twice for Sherlock to cough. The second time he brought up another mouthful of mucus, which he spit into another tissue. ("Not coughing up any blood, are you?" A dark glare. "You better goddamn tell me if you are, Sherlock.")

The telltale crackling sound was quite obvious to John as he listened to Sherlock's lungs. Even without the stethoscope he was able to hear each breath rattle as Sherlock inhaled. He noted that Sherlock's heartbeat was also fast, but not worryingly so. He pulled his arm out from Sherlock's pyjama shirt and sat on the corner of the bed.

"Have you experienced any nausea?"

"No.

"Chest pain?" Sherlock mumbled something indecipherable. "Come again?"

"I said only when I breathe deeply."

"Headache?"

"Big one."

"Alright. It sounds like pneumonia to me, but you'll need a chest x-ray to diagnose. If I beg Sarah I can probably book you one tomorrow or the next day."

"That wasn't our deal, you said no hospital!"

"Well, if I explain it you might be able to get out of an actual examination at the hospital. The X-ray, however, is not negotiable. And if you're lucky, they'll write you a script and we can treat this at home as well."

In lieu of a snappy retort, Sherlock put his head between his knees to cough some more. John frowned in sympathy. He helped Sherlock lie back down and snatched the second pillow from the opposite side of the bed to prop his head up. He was brushing the tissues into a bin when he saw the bottle of cough syrup on the nightstand.

"No more of this, Sherlock," John sighed as he read the label. "Coughing is clearing the mucus out of your lungs; the last thing you want is to suppress it."

"But I can't _sleep_." Sherlock's voice was dangerously close to that of a whining child.

"Drink water. It'll thin out the sputum if nothing else. And I'll find you something to take."

It took nearly fifteen minutes of rummaging through the bathroom cupboard to find a cough medicine that wasn't a suppressant. He brought it back to Sherlock, measuring the pink liquid out in the plastic cap.

Sherlock swallowed it in one gulp and shook his head violently. "That's bloody awful,"

"Well, hopefully it'll be worth it." Said John soothingly, tucking Sherlock's covers up and giving the detective a tiny pat on the shoulder. "Get some rest if you can."

John returned to his own bed, but did not close his eyes until the sounds of coughing had long subsided, and he was sure that Sherlock too was asleep.


End file.
